It happens
as if stirred by some
deep prompting rising up
out of a common soul,
a voice in search of a language
to write its existence
across the pages
of a passing mind.
The soft morning light
pooling beneath hurrying feet,
the cypress trees
along the foreshore time frozen
in their wind bent posture,
the motion of waves
withering into a slow soak
up the beach -
all seem to have something
to say.
I have felt a pen press
upon my mind, struggle
to find a space free
from the cramp of my own self
on which to record
the shape and sounds
of a joy or give form
to a longing freed
from the grip of shadow.
I have felt the cry
of things trapped
in the hollows of words
like empty sea shells held
to the ear and tried faithfully
to transcribe what was said.
In my solitude I have
called out hoping
for a reply only to hear
the sound of my own pulse
punctuate a terrible silence
If sleep was like a box of chocolates
Each choc representing time,
We'd all likely dive for the one
Offering several hours - nine!
If we sneak one during the day
It would be a cat nap.
There are others that give intimitancy
Where dreams will overlap.
It seems that most nights the same is picked
That only provides two to four
Hours of sleep in total.
If I take two, will I get more?
Some can be quite sour
Bringing nightmares, pain or angst.
Others are sweet prompting pleasant dreams,
Even waking, you can feel your heart dance.
Then there are umami ones
With detailed vivid dreams
Not scary, not sweet, but very real
And you find significant seams.
There are occasions where, quite by accident,
Your own exhaustion makes the choice.
One is selected where there's no disturbance,
No dreams, no bladders voice!
This rare sort refreshes the most
And you feel the utter bliss
Of a good night's rest, you're raring to go
Thinking, "I could do with more of this!"
If sleep was like a box of chocolates
And you could actually choose,
Which one do you think you would pick?
I'll give you time to muse.
Birthdays.
What a dubious way to celebrate the imminent proximity of an epilogue.
A concept I have found myself familiar with, as I wait for its darkness to breathe my flesh into an eternity of condemn.
It’s so monotonously profound, rousing my revulsion into a cavern of numbing ecstasy.
The hallucination of confetti blinds me in a disdain of joyous vibrancy I beseech for a defrauding.
A joyous vibrancy I elude in a hope of inevitable invasion.
A joyous vibrancy I hunt until the trail of its scorn boils with the distraught of my blood.
The mascara pours down my face; a river of infamy, coercing the heft of my obscenity.
The lipstick smears down my chin; a sadistic endeavour to ravage the dereliction of my leeches.
The highlighter gleams; a grotesque jubilation of a fibbing mockery.
And the fundamental rigour of my perished rot derides in a soul prompting conjecture;
I hope this is my last birthday.
Amazing buildup of affection,
She is an iconic vigour,
Fights with society
To affirm her existence
In this bitter world.
Owns the wings of courage,
Aspires to touch the horizon,
Smashes stereotypes,
Eludes the cage of suffocation.
Compiling memoirs of ordeals,
Blazes her woes away,
Reflects a gracious smile,
And utters words in appraisal.
Illustrates a glorious extent,
Prompting decisive impulses,
Attempts to fortify her pals
Towards their prospects.
Some days the world feels two sizes too big
Yet I walk through it like a ghost in my own skin
Nothing dramatic
Nothing loud
An unexpected heaviness settles into my bones
The kind of ache that doesn’t shout
It just whispers getting up will be a battle
Even the small things feel sharp
Light hits wrong no matter where I stand
People ask how I am doing
I give them the version they can hold
The one that won’t make them shift their eyes
The one not prompting a helpful response
Inside it is quieter than it should be
Darker than I ever admit out loud
A place where I try to keep moving
When every step feels like quicksand
Music’s obviously derived
From the muse, but some of most
My beloved music’s tied
With the specialties I toast
Tasting the spiritual food
Feeding my well spoiled aesthetics
But it doesn’t seem too good
If some scantily clad fatty
Would've bug her whims at me
Prompting where to laugh or cry
If she spies me just to see
To what extent do I comply
To her wishes, if I’m tame
Or perhaps I’m secretly
Plotting an escape, to gain
Freedom from her tyranny
But no ancient skies I own
No clay soil I cultivate
And the only muse I know
Never was an overweight
She had gone when I was sleeping
Now she comes at nights to see
If I sleep, or if I’m sitting
Looking at her silently.
ASSURED ATMOSPHERES
a
graceful
idyllic
carefree
inviting
shade
as
optimism
flowers
wish-filled
thinking
yet
venturing
hesitating
in
unstable
escalation
precarious
prompting
of
existential
simultaneous
recognition
of
a
special
affinity
fixation
with
the
familiar
carefully
placed
PICTORIAL TRADITIONS
iconographic
impressions
in
prompting
responses
a single
image
polarity
of
perspectives
with
omnipresent
tendencies
a
significant
unruffled
momento
vacant
empty
impoverished
solitary
untouchable
MOODS OF RETROSPECTION-:-
vertginuously
orientation
cultivated
focused
interest
on FUTURE OCCASIONAL GOALS
isolate
dialogue
phenomena
prompting
variety
with POSITIVE POSSIBILITY
recognising
utter
certain
new
beginnings
I can’t help the impulse to call you
When it’s dazzling sunlight in the morning
Your smiling face beckons me through
The dark days and nights and the yearning
I know that my calls would be missed
You’ve been out of reach for awhile
But the sound of ring like a track unreleased
Starts to play in my worried mind
‘Grisha is calling you’ was what you’ve seen
Sometime ago, when the time
Was on our side, and it really did seem
To keep us safe underline
‘Judy is calling you’, the sign used to appear
Prompting to pick up your call
What have we done to be exiled from here?
I bet that we both can’t recall…
Simple souls, they don’t know when to laugh
So they cry just in case
Secretly hoping to be remembered
As profound and empathetic
As it turns the other way round
This bitter experience appears
To be a knowledge of life, prompting them
To act important which only adds comicality.
But they never lose their simplicity
Unlike many of us, who have lost it
Without much care, and maybe
For a humbler reward, than expected.
Always pray, all happenings are but phases,
Changing traceable atmospheric treats...
When doubt can't be healed to save ignorance
Or standing faith could gain whole salvation-
No pressure, but pray off pleasure always...
That all seasons would ever cease holidays.
Always pray, fearful thrills are but failures,
Prompting bold chances to succumb defeats...
When peace can't run without smooth complains
Rather than troubling awaiting glory;
Having pictured the prime instead of now,
Debating promise watching tempting vow.
Always pray, tears off will- is but a clue
Testing the stand of standard chilling vibes,
When cross seems unbearable to shoulder
Without reliable backing following up...
Coming falls trailing uneasiness point,
Wrong backup could easily disappoint.
Always pray, wealth is but staggering pleasure...
Toasting everlasting grace off heavenly bids,
When worldly assets ain't God's flattering deeds;
Accounting love that uphold greedy quests-
Totality is up to Him not strength:
Wishes are dreams but not fulfilling length.
Hanging Mistletoe
Prompting holiday kisses
Imparting joy and peace
a spit for luck
On my travels along country lanes
This Sunday afternoon, I saw a tree.
On a yellow sun-burnt field, that had
A crazed axeman cuts off its limb.
A surgeon named John had put.
a bandage on the stump, but sap
Or white blood had seeped through
The bandage, and I could sense its
Their silent suffering reminds us of mortality, prompting the audience to reflect on life's fragility.
Wounded three.
So much death on a peaceful day, I saw an
An old oak, fallen silent from an enormous tumor on its trunk, stood as a somber symbol of mortality amid the falling leaves.
Tumour on its trunk, leaves had fallen off, and
Gray branches were seeking heavenward,
a gesture of futility. A car ran across the lane.
And I spat twelve times for luck, a superstition that connects us to shared beliefs about chance and fate.
Only can an ear frost-bit
Hear it, glass- like, struck.
What to Winter's first morning
Rose; a stiffer buck!
Out from a pinnacled height
Of blue ice ringing.
Prompting signal to frozed airs
Snow-storms to spearhead.
Northernmost mystical dread.
Twilight does enring.
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